Perspective
by TiamatV
Summary: Another take on the events of G.I. Joe: Resolute--what did Snake-Eyes think of the situation between him, Duke, and Scarlett?


**Perspective**

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**Hello, there! If you're reading this, it's because you're curious... I appreciate that! A few quick warnings: I'm actually an equal-opportunity romantic, and I think Duke and Scarlett make a cute couple, even if they're not as well-developed as the comic canon of Snake Eyes and Scarlett. I rather liked the interesting way G.I. Joe: Resolute handled the situation. That said, I thought that perhaps another take on the events would be fun to write. (As some reviewers have pointed out, though, you may need a healthy dose of suspension of disbelief. Just sayin'!) Second, this is my first G.I. Joe story, and while it's mostly using the G.I. Joe: Resolute story and background, there are bits of comic canon tossed in, just to fill in blanks.

I hope you enjoy this enough to feed my plot bunnies with a comment or two--thanks! ^_^

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He'd walked away from Shana "Scarlett" O'Hara before, but this was the first time she'd walked in the opposite direction.

"_You can go with him, or stay with me. Your call. Make it now." _There'd been nothing smug in Duke's tone at that moment, and even with his back turned, Snake-Eyes had been able to tell from the way the sound ricocheted off the autopsy table that the Top Sergeant's head was down. For an instant, he'd almost felt sorry for the man who was trying to force Scarlett's hand.

But just for an instant.

"_You mean, stay with the unit."_

That was such a Scarlett thing to say—cautious, clear. The rules of engagement. The lawyer still in her, maybe.

"_You heard what I said._"

"_Just like that?" _She didn't sound surprised.

"_Just like that."_ He didn't sound worried.

"_Then I stay._"

He would never forget, Snake-Eyes knew, the way Scarlett had said that. There'd been was no hesitation in her reply—perhaps a heartbeat. Perhaps less. If he hadn't been able to hear the pounding of her pulse, the way it tripped, stretched, tripped again, then slid back into its steady, familiar rhythm, he'd never have known that the thought of finally sending him off on his own bothered her at all.

Snake-Eyes remembered, very well, feeling his shoulders jerk backwards—like a spasm, like a seizure, leaving him deaf and blind and blunted to the world for one long, long moment. Then his shoulders had fallen forward, and if he hadn't taken a step away from their continued conversation behind him—then another, then another, until he realised that he was running past friends and colleagues like water—he'd have fallen. Hit his knees and never gotten back up.

It had been his intention to go by himself to the old Arashikage clan training grounds—of course. It was his battle. His vendetta. Ultimately, in a way, his fault, as much as Storm Shadow's. He would never ask any of the Joes to risk themselves. He'd never ask her to risk herself, not for something that, to someone twisted, was just a game.

But, then, he'd never had to ask—Specialist Shana "Scarlett" O'Hara had always been there, at his elbow, with her crossbow and her knives, her MP-60 and her deadly, pale smile.

Until she wasn't. Until the only thing left filling his hollowed body, filling his mind, was finding Storm-Shadow, and the knowledge that if he died facing his former clan-brother, at least it wouldn't hurt as badly as his chest did.

It was a lie, the stories. Hearts didn't bleed—he'd bled enough to know what that felt like. They didn't break—God only knew he'd done enough of that, too.

But hurt? Oh, yes. Worse than the breaking and the bleeding and burning and _Hell_. Especially since he'd loved her since… well, since forever, really, with her quirky taste in movies and her willingness to talk to someone who'd tried his best to push her away. And he'd had a lot less reason then to avoid this tall spark of a redhead.

Especially since he hadn't realized—not then—that he still had a heart left to lose.

But after the remnants of vengeance and Storm-Shadow, there'd been the mission—always the mission, always saving the world, always another task to drown himself in, and he'd never been more grateful for Cobra than in that moment.

The only problem with that was that this particular mission could have ended two ways: with death, or… with him standing in his bedroom, staring sightless at the walls, unable to bear the sight of the comforter she'd chosen ("I remember, you like blue, didn't you?) or the scabbard-mount that she'd helped him put up. Or the recliner—surprisingly comfortable—that the Joes had gotten him on his five-year anniversary with the team—her favorite place to sit when she was visiting his room.

He'd been too busy, at the time of the mission, to choose death.

So here he was, staring at the wall of his own bunk because he couldn't stand to be around other people at the celebratory banquet, with their heartbeats and their eyes and the sound of Ripcord's voice talking excitedly about "Yeah, she wasn't going to budge, was just gonna sit there and die with 'im, I heard 'em!"

But the frank pity in Ripcord's brown eyes when others' efforts to shush him had finally resulted in him turning around… that had been worse. And then he'd said, "Oh. Fuck. Hey… uh, look, man… I'm sorry, hey? Didn't mean… didn't know you were—but… yeah." Their base-jumper had ducked his head, and winced. "Sorry."

Snake-Eyes had turned and left the banquet hall, double-time.

Was Duke walking around the banquet hall with a hand possessively resting on Scarlett's hip? Their hands loosely resting together, callous against callous? No—the Joes were looser about rules than most, but they'd be… circumspect. She'd insist on it, he was sure of that. There couldn't be a hint of impropriety about it, not when Duke was still her Top Sergeant, officially in command of her.

Officially, anyway. Truthfully, he wasn't sure anyone really had 'command' over Shana O'Hara that she didn't _want _to have command over her. He and she had always been alike in that way, if in nothing else.

Snake-Eyes couldn't blame Scarlett for her decision, not when he, of all people, knew just how much she had to give. The only thing he was angry about was that Duke would have let that humor, that stubbornness, that sharp, unrelenting mind, die with him.

Duke was an autocratic asshole. Pushy. Muscle-bound. Smug. He moved like a bull—fast, but clumsy, and always for whatever target was most obvious. He was a sergeant, an enlisted man, for a reason; he wasn't made for delicacy or tact or, for that matter, politeness in any of its forms. Well… none of them were.

Snake-Eyes bowed his head, and stared blindly at the faint markings that construction had printed on his wall, not perfectly even, just barely ridged. He wanted to hate the Top Sergeant. Things would have been... easier... if he could have.

But they'd had too many missions together. They'd been teammates for a long time, and friends for too long, and Snake-Eyes, of all people, knew what kind of dark, twisted worms jealousy could seed in a man's soul.

Duke was a leader—there was no doubting that. He was charismatic. Handsome. Confident. He would never leave a man behind. He thought on his feet, and he did it well, and he didn't let regret—or insecurity—stop him from making decisions that affected the entire team… sometimes, the entire world. And if he'd had a choice in the matter, never in the world would Duke have let her stay with him when death came for them.

Duke was… whole, in so many ways.

And he'd always made it very clear indeed: he wanted Scarlett.

_Who wouldn't?_

Snake-Eyes reached up, out—watched his fingers spelling out her name in the air. She'd spent years smiling at Duke's blandishments, saying, "Snakes needs me." Need... perhaps. Yes. Yes, even if he didn't show it--even if he didn't know that he should. Even if he'd tried his utmost to force her to walk away, there were days when knowing she would smile at him over breakfast, gimlet-eyed, an undeniable morning person, was the only thing that would get him out of bed. But he'd never deserved her devotion, not when he wondered if there were demons driving that particular tank—guilt, obligation. They both knew that the accident that had taken his face and his voice hadn't been her fault, but...

But. If he'd been in her shoes, would he have believed that?

Scarlett deserved better… but he didn't know what she deserved.

She deserved getting what she truly wanted, he supposed. The small things, the simple things, that any girl would want. He wouldn't wish a normal life on her--she'd never want that, he was sure of it, but... small things. A man who could go out in public without a rubber mask—whom she could look at and feel desire, rather than disgust—who could whisper to her in the dark—who could hold her without being afraid, so afraid.

Not what—or who—she thought she _had_ to want.

He heard her heartbeat outside his door too late to slip into the closet, or out the window. She never knocked when she came to visit him, and when his door rattled open, the scent of her—fresh, a little spicy, the cinnamon bath soap he always gave her on her birthday—made his eyes sting. "Snakes? Hey, here you are. You vanished before the champagne toast—though I guess that's no surprise, considering you." Her laughter bubbled up from deep in her chest, even as he turned, automatically, toward her.

Looking at her hurt far worse than looking at the comforter, or the recliner—but unlike the softness she'd put in his admittedly rather spare room, he couldn't bring himself to look away. Her dress greens had always fit her badly, despite Lady Jay's and Covergirl's efforts to get her to invest in a better pair. But she always walked into his room with her head high and her eyes inquisitive. She was one of the few people he'd never had to wear a mask around, and… she'd never looked away from the wreck that was his face.

Scarlett cocked her head at him, her brilliant ponytail loose over her shoulder. He could smell a hint of bad celebratory champagne around her—frothy, tart—but her eyes were clear, and solemn despite her smile. "Are you okay? I know… Storm-Shadow was… he was your friend, long ago, wasn't he."

He shrugged—nodded. They might have grown up together, but he and Storm-Shadow hadn't been friends since death and senseless murder and betrayal had come between them. He'd had decades to prepare for the sight of that blood on his hands. He'd only had seconds to grasp that in the near-decade that Scarlett had spent at his shoulder, he hadn't given enough back to make her decide she wanted to stay there.

Perhaps—perhaps, he realized, belatedly, he was just numb. Perhaps that was why his old friend's death had bothered him, but… not at much as it could have. It didn't seem right, though, that numbness could… ache, this way.

People probably thought there were some advantages to not having a voice—its quaver couldn't give him away, that was true. But he wasn't sure he could trust his hands to be steady enough to speak with them. He wasn't sure he could raise them and unclench them from fists—or keep himself from reaching out and grabbing her by the shoulders, dragging her against him.

She'd given him the opportunity so many times over the years. Every time, it'd grown harder, harder, to remember why he didn't take it. And he always thought—_next time, next time when she reaches out her hand, I'll take it. Next time_.

But when Snake-Eyes glanced up, Scarlett was too close, and before he could stop her, she'd rested her fingertips on his chest. He'd have groaned, if he could—but instead, everything within him drew up tight, taut, singing like a bowstring; he heard the near-inaudible sound of himself swallowing. And when she asked, in her softer, private voice, "Hey. Are _we_ okay?" he wondered, maybe, if this could be worse than death.

He wasn't sure if the sensation of him trembling was actually him—his entire body shivering from the gentle contact with her—or the fact that his heart was beating too hard against his chest wall from her closeness.

"Snake-Eyes?" she looked up at him, her expression quizzical, fire-brows pricking upwards like question marks. "You're shaking."

_Me, then._

He closed his eyes—let her touch soak through him just a little longer, pinpoints of warmth through his skin-suit, like stars. Then, as gently as he could manage, he took her by the wrists and stepped backwards.

Her lips parted when he gently held her away--would it surprise her, he wondered, to find out just how often he'd dreamed of those lips stroking over his, sleek and plush? Perhaps, but they'd never know, and he'd surprised her now. She stared up at him through those incredible eyes—sometimes the ocean, sometimes the forest, sometimes—like now—with clouds rushing in like a storm. "Snakes, what's going on? You've been acting strangely ever since the mission."

Did she truly expect that nothing would change? That… that it was even _possible_? He'd heard—and been much amused by—some of the other Joes bantering that he was made of steel, or stone, or silver, but… he would have thought that she, of all people, would know better. Steel could bend, and it could shatter, but it simply couldn't _care._

But if he couldn't be steel… he could, at least, be the friend that she should have had all these years. If he was here, he could take care of her at times when Duke couldn't. And if he gave his blessing, maybe the unreasonable guilt and blame she felt about how he looked wouldn't weigh down her new relationship.

Snake-Eyes nodded, and, carefully, raised his hands. They were steadier than he'd thought was possible. No-one was as good at reading his personal sign language as she was—the mix of ASL and signs that ASL had never intended. But he wanted to be sure that she understood, this time, at least—he signed slowly. _[We're okay, Scarlett. He's a good man. The better choice. I understand.]_

He watched Shana O'Hara, the only woman he'd truly loved, blink at him, and wished he could feel better about the fact that he'd said it, and he actually meant it.

There was very little he was proud of anymore, but he was still proud of the skills he had learned as an Arashikage, honed as a Joe. He could move like a whisper and disappear like dust; he knew that without arrogance, without vanity. It was rare, that he didn't see something coming, someone moving. It was rarer that he couldn't anticipate them.

No-one was more surprised than he was when the heel of her size 8 GI Joe standard-issue dress boots—always the heel, because Scarlett knew better than to kick with her toes—slammed into his shin.

Actually… that _really_ hurt.

He jerked back—she followed him, moving so fast her center of balance was reaching his, her hands planting again on his chest—but they weren't gentle when she shoved him. Then slammed the side of one fist into his pectoral. _Ouch_. Then again. Until, finally, he grabbed her wrist—she wasn't punching him, but it was… close. He'd definitely have bruises in a few hours.

But when he had her by the wrist, she leaned too close, tiptoeing into personal space that almost no-one else ever breached. Her eyes were bright and impossibly hot and the blue of them—dress greens always made her eyes looked blue—lashed with gray. Her mouth was full, flushed with fury. "You. Goddamned. _Idiot_," Scarlett hissed.

Snake-Eyes stared down at her, wondering if it was wrong to find her so beautiful when she was so obviously angry. And, for just another instant, wondering if she was armed, because a knife he could avoid—but she genuinely looked enraged enough to raise a gun to him.

Had she misunderstood what he'd said? She couldn't have, but--

"Oh, my God. Snake-Eyes. You… you really thought I… oh my God." He felt her captured hand ball into a fist again, tendon tensing underneath his gloved fingers, with something like delight at her strength, and something like alarm. She didn't shout, but her voice was... harsher, a low thrum that shook through her throat. She bared her teeth. "Let go of me, ninja, or else you're losing that hand."

Would she do it? Considering the way this conversation was going—and the realization that maybe, maybe, he didn't know Scarlett as well as he thought he did—he really wasn't sure. Snake-Eyes let go of her and raised his hands—hastily, faster than he should have… but when he spread his fingers, he realized that he had nothing to say—no defense against that. He had thought exactly what he'd thought. [_I_…] he hesitated, then bit his lip, behind the mask. [_I wouldn't blame you if you did want him, Scarlett. I don't blame you.]_

Scarlett looked at him like he'd asked her if Duke had given her an STD—disgusted, disbelieving. "Do you really think so little of women in general, or is it just me?"

_[But—Duke—he said—and Ripcord—_] That pity had been too eloquent—he hadn't needed the details. His hands were trembling again, much to his own horror; he stilled them, stared at them—until she swatted them away with a swing of her own.

"Sergeant Conrad Hauser can _kiss my petunia_, Snake-Eyes!" she snarled. He heard his own huff of breath—something that might have been laughter in another time, voiceless; Scarlett, despite all her years around soldiers, was still such a Southern girl. "And you know better than to listen to Pit gossip from a hopeless romantic! Is that what all this is about?"

What _else_ could it be about? He felt his mouth opening and closing, and he suspected that behind his face-plate, his eyes were probably enormous enough to be frightening.

"For your information, Mr. Insecure-Know-It-All-Ninja, I stayed _with _the team—just like I said I would. And I stayed _for_ _you,_ damn you."To his horror, he realised that her eyes were too bright—but when her jaw jutted outwards, her shoulders snapping back, it was Specialist O'Hara who stared back up at him, daring him to contradict her. "Yes, I thought there was a good chance you were coming home in a body bag but—damn it! You didn't need another liability. Did you really think I was going to give Storm Shadow something _else_ to use against you?"

_Storm Shadow? Me? What?_ He blinked. _[What do you…]_

"Look—Snake. I know what I am. I know what my strengths are." She was shoving a finger at his chest like she was twisting a knife—hard, fast jabs, vicious—hard enough to hurt herself. He just barely stopped himself from taking her hand. "I'm tough, I'm fast, and I'm smart. Yeah, sure. I'm good backup—normally. Am I a ninja? _No_, I am not a ninja!"

Well, no, she wasn't, but—_[I don't—]_

But even as she made a growled sound of pure exasperation in her throat, even as she started tossing up her hands, he did understand.

It was true, what she'd said. Scarlett was tough and fast; she was smart and beautiful; she was an excellent shot and a brilliant counterintelligence strategist. She had enough strength to break a man in two and enough heart that she'd never want to. But she _wasn't a ninja_.

She was good—yes, she was. She'd never have been a Joe otherwise. But she was, above all, trained to fight in an American military unit. An unconventional one, true, but she was a warrior—not a ghost, and not an assassin. She hadn't gotten his training, his expertise.

She hadn't had _Storm Shadow's_ training, his expertise.

He could see it behind his eyelids—Storm Shadow's tooth-bright smile as he held his blades crossed against Scarlett's white throat—the glint in her eyes when she could taste death on her tongue—the sound of his former friend's laughter when arterial blood jetted from severed carotids in moonlit, glittering pulsatile fountains, only just barely darker than her trademark red hair. He hadn't known that Storm Shadow's hate ran so deep. He hadn't known that _anyone's_ hate could run so deep… and for what? He didn't doubt that the former heir to the Arashikage knew how he felt about Scarlett—and how deeply it would wound him to watch her crumple to the ground of that training yard, knowing that she would never rise from the cobblestones again.

More than his own death. More than his own _life_.

[_Is that why you…_] But he knew the answer—he could see it blazing in her eyes. His hands fell limp to his sides—speechless, in so many ways. His thoughts spiraled—up, then down, down, down, to a single glitteringly bright thought.

_She let me walk away—but she didn't let me go._

Cautiously, he signed, _[What about Duke?]_ If he'd gotten the wrong impression, he could only imagine what their field commander had been thinking. He knew he was insecure about some things, true, but… there'd been no room for doubt in his mind that she was walking away with the perfect blond sergeant in more senses than one.

"Duke? You're worried about _Duke,_ now? _God_. You are the most _exasperating_ man, you know that?" her hands were on her hips, now, shoulders squared, and her expression was still fury and fire, her ponytail whipping her cheek from how hard she was shaking her head. "He and I have already had a little… chat. _He_ should've known better than to make it personal, rather than about the mission. He tried to kiss me, and I told him that I liked and respected him, but if he tried it again I'd hit him somewhere where only me, him, and his lack of children would know about it. And I told him: I stayed for the team, just like I said. He didn't seem all that surprised—Hell, he seemed more surprised when I said 'I love you' in the—don't look at me like that, Snake, I wasn't talking to him at the time, I was talking to Ripcord. And _you_ should've known what I meant! It really _would_ serve you right if I—"

He didn't hesitate, this time.

He would never mention, Snake-Eyes thought, the adorable, tiny startled squeak Scarlett made when he dragged her mid-tirade into his arms, against his chest. _[I'm sorry,]_ his hands whispered, drawing a circle against her back. _[I'm so sorry.]_

He would never forget the way Scarlett's eyes blazed when she dragged off his mask despite his hiss of protest and pulled his face down to hers, slanting their lips together, her fingers clenching tight in his blond hair. Or the way every nerve in his body clamped down on the sensation when he parted his lips to breathe her in, and found her tongue sliding against his, smooth and soft, dipping into the scarred midline that bisected his lips. Or the feel of her wrapped in his embrace—solid, more solid than she looked, sleek and female, and he smiled against when his hand brushed the telltale straps of a cross-draw halter underneath her dress jacket..

It wasn't the need for air that finally drew him back from her—though he _was_ light-headed, he was fairly sure that it had nothing to do with oxygen. It was the knowledge that it was too much, too soon, his skin stretched so tight over his bones that he felt like he'd gone through basic training—after a triathlon and maybe some competitive marathon running. And with him in his skin-suit, she had to feel—damn. If he could still blush… but… wait, he _was_ blushing.

But when he loosened his grip on her, she didn't follow his example.

"Forgive a Southern girl, but… wow. Jesus, Mary and Joseph in a tiny canoe. I've wanted to do that for _so_ long," she murmured, running a thumb in a feathery sweep over his lower lip. To his shock, she didn't have her eyes closed. And to his further shock, the smooth, pink arch of her mouth curved into a smile and she tiptoed to brush her lips against his again. The feel of her breath, warm and moist, whispering against his still-parted mouth… ah, God. "Mmmm. Anyone ever tell you you kiss like a dream, Snakes?"

[_No_,] Snake-Eyes made the pinching 'no' sign against her waist, and she giggled; he couldn't seem to convince his fingers to let her go. He couldn't seem to convince his mind that it wanted to be wrapped around anything but the exquisite redhead woman in his arms.

Scarlett grinned, and winked one eye—they were back to sapphire, the strains of grey and the lines of strain bracketing her gaze slowly fading, replaced by… by something else. Something beautiful, and familiar. He'd been seeing it on her face for years, after all. He really had been an idiot to doubt her, but… "They shouldn't—you need practice. Too tentative."

Solemnly, he nodded, and when she grinned up at him, he caught her face between his hands and dropped a kiss on her nose. But when she opened her mouth to chide him—he assumed, at least—he dipped to take her lower lip into his mouth.

It _was_ different—kissing, being kissed. Either. Both. Exquisite, almost pain. Slick and warm and… he could have sworn he heard her moan when his fingers teased the short red curls under her ponytail, lying in bright bunches against the nape of her neck.

"Oh. Better," Scarlett murmured, and he thought—to his amusement and his shock—that she looked a bit dazed. Delighted, but dazed. Which was… appropriate, in a way, because that was how he felt—like he'd been drinking champagne from her lips, and its bubbles and its dry sweetness had gone straight to wherever would leave him the dizziest. But when she studied him, there was something just a hint uncertain in her eyes. "So…" and when her fingers came up, she traced his scars with one finger, following their trail down the open neck of his his bodysuit, dipping to the hollow of his collarbone. He shivered. "Where to from here, Snake-Eyes?"

He felt his ruined mouth crooking in a rueful smile, and raised his hands, after a moment of careful deliberation. _[Maybe back to the party?]_ he made it a question by raising an eyebrow.

Her eyebrows shot up. He hated parties--she knew it. Looking mildly suspicious and quizzical at the same time made Scarlett look like an annoyed calico kitten—cute and needle-clawed, Snake-Eyes thought. And… was it his imagination, that her gaze had lingered over his shoulder, on his bed, for just a moment? It must have been, but… "Really?"

[_Yes.] _He nodded, firmly, and squeezed her waist one last time before reaching for the mask she'd discarded to the floor._ [When I am done with him, Ripcord is going to be much more hopeless than he is a romantic.] _

She was beautiful when she was angry—but he had to admit, as he tugged on the mask and she reached out to help him, he liked it much, much better when she laughed.

~fin~  
April 28, 2009

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Aaand we're done! -laugh- Thank you for reading--I hope you enjoyed it. Yes, I know it's so implausible as to be falling off the cliff into 'impossible,' especially considering the Omsk scene. But still, it was fun to write. ^_~

I have no idea if Snake-Eyes actually has a private room in the Pit, but considering his scarring and his rank, I wouldn't be surprised. I realized after writing this that the implication in G.I. Joe: Resolute was that Snake-Eyes lost his voice and was scarred from a sniper bullet hitting him across his face, I assume. (We do not concern ourselves with such things as medical impossibility in cartoons! -grin-) The comic canon for the situation is that he was badly burned saving Scarlett from a crashing helicopter. She's stuck by him through it all (despite his many efforts to distance her from him) so, well... gotta admire a girl for dedication!


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